Parch'd, coded in shades, o' desiccated conifer;
but flora withers, obtains an ancient monicker.
Just like us, it ebbs, gettin' stained in rust;
my verse then limps and loses its impetus.
In smithereens, like starch it now despairs,
an inch of her wrests, the rest begins to wear.
She waxes sullen, for manners make listen;
and it isn't too often that its all of a sudden.
Its autumn compassion that makes us weak,
the fronds atrophy, and trespass critique.
That does smarten, and ichor rushes ribbons,
with cold comfort, its often it so worsens.
Ah distress! Smirk at what coppice did me,
I stumbl'd and pined in forlorn harmony.
She screamed, resonating with merriment;
our reverie compeer'd, still incoherent.
Its now gotten late, even the aspens 'ave dull
just as I have to go, an amour's seasonal.
I unearth'd her and disremember'd courtesy;
now I dig 'neath, beside those solitary trees.
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